


Forever and Ever More

by longing-and-heartache-and-lust (the_ressurectionist)



Series: blood like wine, eyes like a wildfire [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And I mean a LOT, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Jask is basically immortal, Jaskier is better with a weapon than you could've ever imagined, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nightmares, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Rimming, SO MUCH TEASING, Sharing, Teasing, There's a lot of sex in this, Threesome - M/M/M, all the witchers are here because I love them, and completely feral, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24631414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ressurectionist/pseuds/longing-and-heartache-and-lust
Summary: When everyone gathers in Kaer Morhen for the summer, Geralt realises that Jaskier has two sides.One of them is his usual self: all confidence, teasing and charm that gets him everything he wants, even if it's another witcher. It's Jaskier whose eyes shine like a wildfire that could burn down the entire Continent when he's got a weapon in his hand. Jaskier whose blood is sweeter than wine when he lets Geralt bite him so hard that there are scars left.And the other one is Jaskier that wakes up screaming at night after seeing the future that he cannot change.
Relationships: Coën & Jaskier | Dandelion, Coën/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Coën
Series: blood like wine, eyes like a wildfire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780831
Comments: 18
Kudos: 174
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Kaer Morhen

It’s ungodly late at night when Geralt wakes Jaskier up with a gentle kiss on the shoulder.

Blinking his eyes open and stretching as much as being in a saddle allows, the bard reaches his hand back to run in through Geralt’s hair in an affectionate little gesture that he’d grown accustomed to as of late.

Kaer Morhen looms ahead of them, dark and impregnable in the pale moonlight, seemingly not even habited at all, and yet, when they approach the gates, there’s light coming from behind them, which can only mean that they’ve been expected.

“How did they know we arrive tonight?” Jaskier asks, twisting back in the saddle to look at the witcher.

The older man just shrugs, but the little smile playing on his lips is enough for Jaskier to know that he had somehow let everyone else in the castle know. How exactly he did that was a whole other question, and there was no use asking. 

The witchers had their own little secrets.

Jaskier had never been to Kaer Morhen in summer before. They’ve spent the last few winters here, and the bard had even gotten used to the cold that comes with a fortress built entirely out of stone but coming here this time of year was an unexpected journey for him.

When Geralt had just suggested they go, the bard was unsure of where did he get that idea, but then, after it turned out that it was Vesemir’s three-hundredth birthday in the middle of summer, everything fell into place. More so, Geralt had assured Jaskier that his whole family will be there, and, well, Jaskier couldn’t say no to that.

Over the course of the previous winters, the bard had grown incredibly fond of the other witchers.

They were a little awkward around each other for the first few days, but then Jaskier’s charm did the job. They trained and hunted together, raced each other on horseback on the snowy mountain slopes, Jaskier sang to them and bickered with Lambert endlessly, all of that bringing them closer to each other with every passing day.

And on top of all that, there was also Jaskier and Coёn, but not even they knew exactly what it was that they shared.

In a lot of ways, coming back this time around was returning home not only for Geralt but for his bard, as well.

The moment Jaskier sees Eskel behind the opening gates, he jumps off of Roach in one swift motion and runs into the witcher’s open arms, nearly stumbling over himself. Making a jump for it, the bard drapes himself onto Eskel, arms and legs wrapped around him tightly in an embrace.

When it came to Eskel, the bard could keep him company for hours, just listening about all the different monsters the witcher had stumbled upon over the years. 

He would also help Eskel in the kitchen and was the only one allowed there most of the time, which brought the two of them even closer to each other. 

“It’s good to see you again, Buttercup,” Eskel laughs, his arms coming up to wrap around Jaskier’s back so tightly that the bard’s ribs seem at risk.

Geralt isn’t really sure as of when did his brother come up with that nickname for Jaskier, but he had refused to call him anything but that for some time now, so everyone around just had to take it for granted.

Easy at his affections, Jaskier presses a kiss onto Eskel’s temple, making the man bat him away, nearly blushing. Geralt just rolls his eyes at that, but there is no irritation in that gesture, only a half-smile playing on his lips.

He missed this.

“It’s good to see you, too, Wolf,” Eskel nods, setting the bard down onto the ground and shaking Geralt’s hand firmly before pulling him into a hug. “Vesemir and Lambert are inside, playing their eight round of gwent and waiting for you. Coёn should arrive in a few days.”

He turns to where Jaskier had just been standing, an arm extended towards him to lure the bard into the castle, but he’s long gone, busy with muttering affectionate nonsense to Eskel’s horse and kissing its forehead and muzzle like he’d missed it more than anyone else.

Eskel makes a face.

“And he kisses you with those lips afterwards?”

“Oh no,” Geralt sighs, shaking his head. “First Roach, and only then – me.”

***

Once Jaskier notices Lambert, sat at the wide table, surrounded by gwent cards, and glaring at him, a grin creeps over the bard’s lips that Geralt knows a little too well.

In a few light, waltzing steps, he crosses the space between them and, before Lambert can really do anything, leans down to press a kiss to the witcher’s cheek, immediately retreating to Geralt’s arms for protection.

Lambert growls at him but there is no real irritation in his voice. Rolling his eyes, he stands up, planting his palms onto the tabletop, clearly a little too drunk to stand up straight on his own.

“Running back to your witcher for protection?” he grins. “What, can’t protect yourself?”

Jaskier’s eyes immediately light up with a wild, feral fire that never fails to make Geralt’s breath catch. He can take a lot, but not that.

“Oh, you think I can’t protect myself?” he grins back, fingers quick and sure as he pulls his dagger out of the sheath on his hip, so fast that no one would be able to stop him. “You want to fight? Square up, Witcher.”

His voice sounds different to how it does when he addresses Geralt the same way. It doesn’t have the undertone that makes Geralt wish he could just press the bard up against the nearest wall.

“Jask…” he tries weakly, extending an arm to pull the bard back to his chest, but the younger man ducks away from it without even losing his balance.

Over the last few winter that he’d spend with the witchers in Kaer Morhen, he’d learned a lot.

Way too much, Geralt sometimes thought.

When they first arrived, the bard demanded Geralt taught him how to wield a weapon, and when he had quickly settled for a long dagger, he was eager to learn. Bruises and aching muscles weren’t going to stop him, so by the end of their first winter in the castle, he was a good enough fighter to have his fair share of victories over the witchers.

And now, after months upon months of training, his every step, every move is calculated. He’s graceful in the way he moves, confident in his abilities, and, gods, _so_ hot with a weapon in his hand.

“There’s a slight chance that he will kill me, not Lambert,” Geralt chuckles, addressing Eskel, who seems to be even more amused than the bard himself.

“Wasn’t that your intention when training him?”

As they speak, Lambert makes his way from behind the table, swaying slightly, and draws his own dagger from his boot – a shorter one, but dangerous, nonetheless. Jaskier doesn’t look like he’s even thinking about backing off, the two of them slowly circling each other, knees slightly bent, both waiting for a perfect moment.

They’ve trained together a lot last winter, eventually growing to resolve each and every one of their nonsense arguments with a fight. After leaving a few bruises on each other, they were able not to pick on one another for another day or two.

Geralt assumes that this time around it will end pretty much the same, but before either of them can finally strike, Vesemir appears in the doorway, ordering them to stop immediately because neither of them is fit for a fight.

Reluctantly, darting glances at each other but unable to hide their pleased smiles, Lambert and Jaskier leave each other be, the bard switching his attention to the older witcher and running to him for a hug. Vesemir, despite his usual grumbling, smiles against Jaskier’s hair and pulls him in.

“I still don’t know why all of you are making such a big deal out of me getting old, but it’s good to see you all home again,” he says, letting the bard go.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jaskier smiles, sheathing his dagger and allowing Geralt to wrap his arms around him.

It's a warm and familiar weight on his waist, and Jaskier relaxes into it, almost throws his head back, tired from a few weeks on the road. 

“He wouldn’t stop asking me to tell stories about you,” the witcher smiles, burying his face in the bard’s neck and leaving a few weightless kisses on it, pointedly ignoring Lambert’s grumbles. “All the way here all he wanted to hear about was you.”

Jaskier gestures at him lazily, something that should be dismissing. 

“I’m a bard, I love stories.”

Vesemir chuckles at him but says nothing, just gestures to the table, offering Jaskier and Geralt to join them for a round of gwent. It seems like they’re betting money, and Lambert is beyond drunk to have a chance at winning, but both the bard and his witcher are way too tired after a long ride to accept even such tempting offer.

“It’s been a long few days, I think we’re better off,” Geralt says, feeling the weight of exhaustion slumping down onto his shoulders. “By the gods, don’t wake us up for training tomorrow.”

Vesemir agrees with no enthusiasm but lets them go, nonetheless.

"Just this one time."

***

The bed is already made for them, wide and welcoming, and Jaskier crawls under the blankets as soon as he gets his boots off. 

The pure bliss of finally lying down and overall being in his own bed rather than an inn one washes over him, making the bard moan softly, burying his face in the pillows.

“I’m not letting you sleep in your clothes,” Geralt informs, fumbling with the buckles of his armour.

Jaskier barely even acknowledges him for a few seconds, allowing himself to stay as he is, and it's only after he hears Geralt undo the last buckle of his that he rolls over to look at him. 

Geralt looks home-like and familiar in nothing but one of his black shirts, hair untied and falling down onto his shoulders in messy yet somehow perfect silver locks. He looks tired, but in a good way, where his jaw is not clenched and his shoulders aren't tense. 

Jaskier can't help but bite his lip, looking at him.

“You’re most welcome to undress me, _Witcher_.”

It takes Geralt quite a lot not to give in to the teasing, but he takes his time at undressing Jaskier regardless, pressing little kisses onto his skin, starting from the shoulders and going all the way down to the bard’s thighs, still marked with a few days old love-bites.

Jaskier melts under his lips, playing with Geralt's hair and softly tugging on it when he wants another kiss in the same spot.

His eyes are closed, breathing deep and even, only the tiniest little sounds falling off his lips every now and then. He doesn't help with the undressing, enjoying just how slow Geralt takes it, only pulls him into soft little kisses whenever the witcher gets a few more hooks or buttons undone.

"I love you so much," he smiles, voice only a little above whisper when Geralt tugs the last item of clothing off of him and brushes his lips over the bard's ribs again. 

For a moment, Geralt considers turning his kisses into something more, but then, seeing the way Jaskier’s falling in and out of sleep, absolutely exhausted, the witcher decides against it, lowering himself onto the pillows and pulling the younger man into an embrace instead.

"Love you too," he finally says, the feeling of Jaskier's body next to him sending a little shiver down his spine.

It's been three and a half years since that evening when Geralt had discovered the bard's secret as to why he doesn't age and also managed to let him in on his own little secret after not being able to resist the urge to kiss him. Over the months, it's gotten easier for him not only to admit to his feeling but to talk about them, as well. 

He'd learned to display his affection in so many different ways, and nights like this kept prooving it to Jaskier. 

He nuzzles in closer, throwing one leg over the witcher's thighs, so full of love that he can barely contain it inside himself. 

“It’s good to be home,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt's chest, drawing some kind of patterns on it with the tip of his finger. “Especially when it’s not so cold that I have to sleep under three blankets.”

“I’ve got a few methods of warming you up if you get too cold,” Geralt reminds, unable to help himself and earning a shove to the shoulder. “I don’t remember you minding them.”

“Oh, fuck off, Geralt.”

***

When Jaskier wakes up the next morning, the sun is high in the sky, its rays streaming into the room and warming his bare skin.

He knows he's in bed alone and even though he doesn't _really_ mind it, he wishes Geralt was still there so that he could climb on top of him and spend at least another hour like that, just stealing kisses from him and enjoying the feeling of their naked bodies tangled together. 

But Jaskier knows well enough that the witcher is used to getting out of bed as soon as he wakes up and that he had never really been able to spend the entire morning under the sheets unless the bard woke up together with him and simply refused to let him go. 

Sometimes, when they'd stop at a good inn and have nowhere to rush, they'd spend the entire day in bed, just kissing and touching each other endlessly.

Stretching with a blissful moan, Jaskier reluctantly slips from under the sheets to pull on his trousers and Geralt’s shirt, run his fingers through his hair and head down the staircase to the main room.

He finds all the witchers aside from Vesemir gathered there, everyone already in their light training armour, discussing something at the table, and Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to plant himself onto Geralt’s lap, wrapping an arm around his neck.

“You should’ve stayed in bed,” he murmurs into the witcher’s ear, his free hand running down his chest, only the fingertips touching the armour. “I’ve had plans on you.”

With little to no modesty, Geralt wraps his arms around him and pulls the bard closer, running his thumb up and down his thigh, unacceptably high.

“Come train with us, and if you win, I’m all yours,” he suggests, voice low and still a little husky from sleep.

Though still tired from the road, that's not something that Jaskier can say "no" to.

“And if I lose?” he enquires, allowing one of Geralt's hands slip between his thighs without anyone noticing.

“You won’t.”

Ignoring the other witchers, Jaskier leans down to kiss Geralt on the lips, deep and slow, one of his hands holding onto one of the belts on the witcher’s armour and the other one tangled in his hair.

It's a little game they keep playing even though they shouldn't. 

When they'd first arrived in Kaer Morhen for the winter, it was Jaskier that started it. He loved the idea of seeing just how far they can go without anyone noticing or, at least, telling them to go play their games in their own bedroom. 

The only ground rule was no undressing. Everything else was allowed.

Jaskier can feel his breath hitch when Geralt runs his thumb over the inseam of his trousers, and he can't help himself but bring his knees together, not allowing the witcher to go any further.

He loves it - adores it when Geralt touches him like that - but he's just not willing to risk it right now, when the other witchers are so close.

He doesn't break the kiss, though, letting Geralt lick into his mouth, so when he does finally pull away, they’re both breathless, and _fuck_ , Geralt wishes he never left the bed.

“Let’s go train, then.”

***

Jaskier is perfect in the way he moves.

Light on his feet, his steps fall into a perfect rhythm as he evades Geralt’s dagger each and every time, his own blade shining in his hand.

He’s confident, almost teasingly so, a grin never leaving his lips as he spins and predicts the witcher’s next steps easily. Geralt could’ve never thought just how good Jaskier would be with a weapon.

“Keep your knees bent!” Vesemir orders from where he’s standing, watching the two of them. “Lower, bard!”

Vesemir wasn’t usually too interested in Jaskier’s training, saying that he’d already had his fair share of teaching, but there were times where he would indulge in keeping himself entertained by shouting remarks at the bard every chance he got.

His involvement did, however, do its thing, as Jaskier listened carefully and followed the directions, which allowed him to get better and better with every passing day.

He learned impossibly fast.

He listens to the older witcher this time around, as well, bending his knees to a sharper angle and almost immediately lunging forward, having found the right time. The shield of Quen that Geralt had cast over himself breaks with an explosion of orange light as the bard’s dagger runs over his side, right under the ribs, where the skin is thin and fragile.

If it wasn’t for the Sign, the witcher would’ve been left bleeding.

“Does that count as me winning?” Jaskier grins, his eyes shining like a wildfire.

Gods, Geralt wants him right there and then.

Instead, the witcher gets his hair out of his face, plays with the knife in his hand, tossing it into the air and catching again mid-air without looking. The bard mirrors his movements, eyes slightly narrowed, like he’s testing the witcher’s limits. It’s all a game for him, everyone knows it.

“One more hit and the victory is yours,” Geralt finally says, casting Quen over himself one more time.

Jaskier nods, never taking his eyes off the witcher and takes few careful steps back, like he’s hesitant all of a sudden, but Geralt knows the trick. Before the bard took on close combat, he learned to shoot a crossbow with enough precision to split apples in half.

It takes him only a few quick moves and three more steps back for Jaskier to load his weapon and shoot, nothing but confidence in his eyes.

Geralt ducks, but the bard knew that he would.

The arrow hits Geralt’s armour right above the heart, breaking the Sign and making him take a step back out of instinct. Granted, whenever they train, both he and the other witcher fight like a human would save only for the protective shield, but that doesn’t make Jaskier any less of a dangerous opponent.

On an actual battlefield, if Jaskier were to shoot the same shot, the arrow would've gone right through whoever it was in front of him.

“You two are useless when placed against each other,” Vesemir grumbles with no real irritation. “You just keep playing with each other like it’s your bedroom,” He’s not completely wrong. “Bard, you’re up against Eskel next.”

“Ah, you see, I’d love to,” Jaskier smiles, closing the distance between him and Geralt to pull him into a quick kiss by his medallion. “But I’m afraid I’ve got plans on my witcher.”

Vesemir rolls his eyes at them so hard that for a second Geralt is concerned for his health, but then just waves a hand at them dismissively and switches his attention to Eskel and Lambert.

***

“He’s right, you know,” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s neck, pressing wet kisses onto it. “We can’t be put against each other, we always end up in bed.”

“And whose fault is that?” the bard smiles, his hands tangling in the other man’s hair, little choked moans escaping his lips with every breath. “First you put a weapon in my hand and then you can’t get your hands off of me.”

Geralt doesn’t really listen, just grips the younger man’s thighs tightly and yanks him up, a pleased sound rolling from his tongue as Jaskier wraps his legs around him.

“What do you want?” he asks, eyes fluttering shut once again as he brushes his lips over Jaskier’s. “I promised you I’m all yours if you win.”

The bard doesn’t answer for some time, pulling on the silver strands as hard as he wants and letting Geralt lick into his mouth, moaning softly right into his lips before finally pulling away. His eyes still shine with a fire that makes Geralt’s breath catch.

“Get down on your knees for me, will you, _Witcher_?”

Geralt doesn’t remember ever being down on his knees for anyone other than Jaskier. No kings, no queens, no guards or knights could ever make him oblige like that, and yet, all the bard had to do was ask.

The witcher sets Jaskier back down onto the floor, kisses him one more time, hands travelling down his slender body until he reaches the band of his training trousers, and slowly sinks to his knees, never breaking the eye contact.

The way Jaskier always knew exactly what he wanted made Geralt give him absolutely anything he asked for.

Having pulled the bard’s shirt out of his trousers, all the other armour already somewhere on the floor, the witcher presses his lips to his abdomen, peppering little wet kisses all over the tender skin, hands slowly undoing the metal buttons.

Jaskier’s hands are in his hair again, fingers slowly brushing through it but not pulling any closer, allowing the witcher to take things as slow as he wishes.

Geralt doesn’t rush, switching his lips for his tongue as he pulls the now unbuttoned trousers all the way down to the bard’s boots, holding on to his hips with one hand and slowly stroking his hard cock with the other one before taking it into his mouth.

Jaskier throws his head back, choking back a moan in the back of his throat and gets a tighter grip on the witcher’s hair to give himself some kind of reliance.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he breathes out, a shiver running up his spine as Geralt’s lips slip further down.

Geralt knows exactly how the bards likes it, pressing his tongue to the throbbing veins of his cock, moving his head slowly, pulling away almost entirely every time, the taste of precome sweet on his tongue. 

He lets Jaskier fuck into his mouth, just as slow, letting his cock all the way into his throat and moaning softly from just how good it feels before steadily picking up the pace.

Geralt pins the younger man’s hips to the wall behind him, taking away the control, and moves his head faster, chin wet with spit and precome. It keeps dripping down onto the floor and somehow, that turns them both on even more. Geralt’s trousers, though not the regular skin-tight leather ones, still hurt from just how hard he is.

“Fuck, Geralt, please–” the bard chokes out, his voice almost a whimper.

He doesn’t even have to finish his sentence for the witcher to know what he needs.

Geralt pulls away for a few seconds, catching his breath and wrapping his fingers around the bard’s entire length, stroking him in fast, uneven movements, a string of spit connecting his lips and the tip of Jaskier’s flush, throbbing cock. 

“Look at me,” Jaskier says, breathless, his hand coming down to tip the witcher’s chin up.

Geralt allows him, obliges, feeling his lower abdomen tie into knots from the way the bard’s voice sounds and locks his gaze before wrapping his lips around the tip of his cock, never stopping the movements of his wrist.

Jaskier moans loudly, well aware that their bedroom is way too far from all the other inhabited rooms for anyone to hear them. He’s breathless, cheeks and lips flush with blood, desperate and so incredibly sensitive.

He pulls Geralt’s hand away from his hips, meeting no resistance, pushes deeper into his mouth, almost all the way to the back of his throat and curses under his breath, hands shaking slightly in the witcher’s silver hair.

Geralt’s mouth is hot and wet and _perfect_ , and Jaskier can barely take it, fucking into it fast and hard, choking on his moans and the witcher’s name, already so close that his knees aren’t holding him properly.

The witcher can’t hold back his own moans, the younger man’s pleasure almost better than his own. His jaw hurts from the tension but it only turns him on even more, so much so that he can’t help it but reach down his own trousers, a shiver going down his spine as he touches himself.

“That’s right,” Jaskier chokes out, watching Geralt’s hand move. “Just like that, _Witcher_.”

Geralt strokes himself in fast, uneven movements, eyes closed with pleasure, the bard’s cock so deep in his throat that he almost chokes.

They move in the same rhythm – a nearly perfect synch – knowing each other perfectly, sensing every little need and desire before they’re even spoken.

Jaskier’s moans break into soft whimpers as he arches his back, biting on the back of his hand, and comes, Geralt’s name on his lips.

Completely breathless, he sinks – almost falls – to his knees, pulling Geralt in for a raw, hungry kiss, feeling his own taste on the man’s tongue as he bats his hand away to switch it for his own. Immediately, he finds the right rhythm, fingers sticky with precome as he moves his wrist, only pulling away from the witcher’s lips to take in a shaky breath that barely fills his lungs with air.

It only takes Geralt a few endlessly-long, agonisingly-perfect seconds to come, as well, biting into the bard’s lips so hard that he splits the lower one open.

Wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s neck and never breaking the kiss, sweet and intoxicating with the taste of blood, the witcher pulls both of them down onto the floor, not bothering with making it five steps towards the bed.

Pulling away with a satisfied grin, the bard rests his head upon Geralt’s chest, trying to catch his breath and throws a leg over him in a possessive gesture that the witcher had grown fond over the last couple of years.

“We really should stop ignoring the fact that we have a bed, you know,” Jaskier chuckles, pressing a kiss to the other man’s chest and getting up to pull his trousers back up.

Geralt gets up, as well, fumbling with his buttons without even looking. “Hm.”

Buckling his belt, the bard turns to him with a fond smile on his lips, cupping the man’s jaw with one hand to lean in and kiss him gently.

“I just love how good you are with words.”

Geralt growls at him softly, but returns the kiss, pleased and content and still a little too sensitive from the orgasm.

Jaskier throws his arms around the witcher’s neck, pressing himself closer and letting Geralt finally take them both to their bed to climb on top of him once they fall onto the pillows. Just to tease him a little more, the bard grinds his hips against him and grins from the way Geralt rolls his eyes with pleasure.

“You want me, _Witcher_?” he asks, the grin never leaving his lips.

“You know we need to go back to training,” Geralt reminds but his hands are already on the bard’s thighs.

“Oh, I know that,” Jaskier props himself up against the older man’s chest and moves his hips again. “But I’m not done with you just yet.”

***

By the time they finally let each other go and make their way back to the training field, both Eskel and Lambert have switched their swords for half-empty mugs of ale and are now looking for something in the clouds, their legs dangling off the edge of a wall.

Covered in fresh marks on his neck, shoulders and chest, shirt unbuttoned half-way down to show them all off, Jaskier climbs onto the wall as well, resting his shoulder against Eskel’s and stealing the ale from him.

“You fight better than you did last winter, Buttercup,” the witcher points out, not even attempting to get his ale back.

“Because he’d spent the entirety of last winter running from Geralt’s bed to Coёn’s and back, he didn’t have time to train,” Lambert grins, ducking away when Jaskier reaches over to push him off the wall.

“For your information, I’ve spent most of the winter with _both_ of them in my bed,” he grins back, waving a hand at the witcher dismissingly.

No one really knew what it was that Jaskier and Coёn shared, but it was pretty clear that over the course of the last few winters the bard had managed to have yet another witcher fall for him.

Geralt, even though jealously would sometimes burn through his veins like fire, was rather enjoying it as long as everyone had their fun and Jaskier’s heart remained his.

Granted, the first few nights of not having the bard in his bed were unusual, to say the least, but then again, he would always come back to him in the morning, covered in marks and smelling of Coёn which somehow turned Geralt on.

And then, a few weeks into the last winter, they all started spending some nights together after Jaskier had pulled them both to bed with him.

***

_“Fuck, Geralt, I’m so cold,” Jaskier breathes out, pressing himself as close to the witcher as physically possible and wrapping both blankets around him even tighter._

_It’s an incredibly cold night, a snowstorm raging behind the windows, knocking against them, and howling in the corridors, making it impossible to fall asleep._

_“I know, love,” Geralt holds him in his arms, peppering kisses all over the bard’s neck and shoulders, trying to keep him warm, but his body is way too cold for that to have any real effect. “Is there anything I can do for you?”_

_Jaskier hesitates for a few seconds, clinging on to Geralt with ice-cold hands_ _but before he can say anything, the witcher already knows what he needs._

_“Do you want me to go get Coёn?”_

_Jaskier props himself up on his elbow, narrows his eyes at Geralt as if trying to figure out if he’s serious or not, but then the flames in the fireplace nearly go out again, and the bard just nods, burrowing himself deeper into the blankets._

_“If it’s not too weird for you,” he finally says._

_Geralt leaves for just a few minutes, and when he comes back, there’s Coёn following him, his dark hair ruffled from hours of trying to fall asleep. As he sees Jaskier, a soft smile curls the corners of his lips up, softening his features and making the witcher look even younger than he already is._

_“Come, Jask,” Geralt says, climbing back under the covers and beckoning the bard closer. “You, too.”_

_Coёn hesitates for only a second before taking Jaskier’s extended hand and getting into bed as well, pressing himself close to him from the other side._

_It is much warmer like that, and Jaskier finally stops shivering, closing his eyes and relaxing into their arms. For a few minutes, he’s silent and content, his breathing evening out, but before he can fall asleep, he props himself up on his elbow again, a cunning smile playing on his lips._

_“Kiss me,” he breathes out and, when Geralt and Coёn exchange a glance, his smile twists into a grin. “Both of you.”_

_Geralt acts first, leaning down to pull the bard into a long, sweet kiss, licking into his mouth,_ claiming _him, but Coёn doesn’t let that stop him, finding his way to the bard’s neck, making him moan softly into Geralt’s lips._

_It’s not like anything they’ve done before but somehow both witchers fall into nearly perfect synch, their hands all over Jaskier in a matter of seconds, not pulling on the edges of his clothing just yet but clearly not planning on stopping._

_“Oh, fuck‒” Jaskier chokes out, already completely breathless, and it doesn’t help him at all that Coёn doesn’t stop the trail of his kisses. “Fuck, I want you both so much.”_

_***_

“Really, though, Geralt must’ve trained you every day for you to get this good,” Eskel says, pulling the bard out of his memories.

“He did,” Jaskier nods. “Because I insisted. I’m getting pretty damn good with a sword, you know.”

“You?” Lambert snorts. “With a sword?”

"If I can take you down with a dagger, what makes you think I won’t be able to do the same with a sword?”

It’s about then that Lambert puffs his chest, ready to challenge the bard to yet another fight when Geralt joins them, his own mug of ale in hand.

He’s covered in fresh marks just as well, and as soon as he climbs onto the wall, Jaskier retreats into his arms to rest his back against the witcher’s shoulder, keeping a perfect balance even with one of his legs dangling down. It’s a rather long way to fall, but the bard just doesn’t seem to care.

“Lambert doesn’t believe I’m good with a sword,” he says, getting Geralt’s attention.

“Took down a few nekkers on the way here,” Geralt shrugs, watching something in the valley beneath them.

“You gave him a silver fucking sword?”

“I had a spare one.”

Jaskier grins at the other witchers, clearly so very pleased with himself, and after that, Lambert doesn’t seem to doubt his abilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, no, the whole Сoёn thing started out as a simple "what if?" but there I was three days later, unable to sleep because of just how bad I needed to write this  
> I've got nothing to say for myself other than I've got no self-restraint and I'm sorry for nothing


	2. The River

Jaskier wakes up with a scream.

Tears streaming down his face, he bolts up on the bed, shaking all over. 

For a few agonising seconds, he feels like he's suffocating, like he's choking on smoke, the entire room caught up in flames. 

His ears are ringing with distant screams, heavy stomping of hooves, swords clashing together with a deafening and unmistakable sound of metal on metal. The world burns around him, ground wet and dark with blood that flows through the streets like a river.

Jaskier presses a hand to his lips, trying to silence the cries tearing through him, but that doesn't help, the feeling of freezing-cold horror not leaving his body. 

In a few seconds, he's already in Geralt's arms, the witcher whispering something comforting to him and holding the bard close to his chest even as he hits him over and over again, trying to break free, not realising that it's all over and he's safe. 

"Jask," Geralt calls softly, running his fingers through the bard's hair, trying to calm him down even though his own heart is beating painfully fast with worry. "Jask, it's me. You're okay, you're safe."

It takes Jaskier a couple of endlessly long seconds to finally realise that it's not real, that he's back home, in his and Geralt's bed and that there's enough air in the room for him to breathe. 

He presses himself closer to the witcher, hides his face in his chest, shoulders still shaking as he can't stop crying, and by now Geralt knows better than to try and calm him down. They stay like that for some time, Geralt gently caressing the bard's hair and holding him safe and warm in his arms, waiting for Jaskier's breathing to even out. 

"It's all over," he whispers softly, reaching down to press his lips to Jaskier's hair. "It's all over, I've got you."

He doesn't count how much time passes before Jaskier pulls away, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand and sniffling, eyes still glistening with tears. 

He sits back, pulls the blanket over his shoulders to cover himself fully and stays silent for a few moments before licking his lips and meeting Geralt's glowing eyes. 

"A war," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "There is a war coming." 

Geralt freezes, disbelief running through his body in a cold, weakening wave. He can feel it spread through his veins, starting from somewhere in his chest and going all the wat to his fingertips. 

"A war with whom?" he manages. 

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, breathing getting heavier again as the images flash in front of him again. 

_Black. An entire sea of black. Horses, weapons, armour, - everything. A colour so dark that not even blood can stain it._

"I don't know," he finally sniffles. "I don't know, Geralt."

It wasn't often that he had these dreams.

But they seemed to be getting worse every time. 

"Come here," Geralt calls softly, opening his arms for the bard to crawl into. "It's going to be okay, I've got you."

The first time Geralt found out had been a little over three years ago. 

***

_Jaskier wakes up with a start, breathing heavy and shallow, fingers digging into the witcher's wrist so hard that there are going to be bruises left._

_"Jaskier?" Geralt calls, blinking his eyes open and sitting up on the bed, as well. "Jask, what's wrong?"_

_For a long time, the bard doesn't answer, just tries to even out his breathing and keeps looking around the room like he's waiting for something to appear out of the darkness._

_Geralt waits, silent and patient, just reaches a hand out, and, when Jaskier leans into the touch, peppers feather-light kisses over the bard's shoulders, arms closed around him._

_Finally, Jaskier sighs slowly and turns to face the witcher, biting his lips in hesitation._

_"Sometimes," he says, averting his eyes. "I have these nightmares‒"_

_Geralt waits, allowing the bard the time he needs. He doesn't remember ever seeing him like this, doesn't remember the bard being so quiet, so cornered, and it almost hurts to look at him._

_Getting himself together, Jaskier takes in a deep breath and lifts his eyes._

_"And sometimes, they come true."_

_For a second, Geralt feels like he can't breathe._

_"And when you say that "sometimes" they come true, you mean‒"_

_"I mean all of them do."_

_For a few long seconds, neither of them have anything to say, Jaskier searching Geralt's face for answers and Geralt desperately trying to find them._

_"When did it start?" he finally asks._

_Jaskier sniffles, shrugs sharply with one shoulder._

_"Like eight years ago or something like that."_

_It dawns upon Geralt immediately, all the pieces falling into place in his mind._

_"So after you took that potion the mage gave you? The one that keeps you young?"_

_By the look in Jaskier's eyes, Geralt realises that he knows. Have known for a long time._

_"After I took the potion," the bard nods, fingers fidgeting with his ring._

***

"Has it gotten worse?" Geralt asks, even though he knows the answer.

Jaskier has seemingly calmed down by now, his breath hitching only slightly as he rests his head upon Geralt's chest, clinging onto his waist. His hair is messy from sleep, and the witcher untangles the locks gently, hoping that the bard will just fall asleep in his arms again. 

Jaskier was incredibly good at hiding his nightmares. 

No one aside from Geralt knew about them, and even he failed to see that something was wrong for way too many years, the reason being that Jaskier was good not only at hiding them but at _forgetting_ about them, as well. He didn't let his nightmares affect him, didn't let them creep into his life when morning came around, and it was so impossibly simple not to notice anything. 

Nights like these weren't easy, but once the sky lightened up with sunlight, Jaskier was his usual self again. 

"It's gotten worse," the bard finally nods. "I've never seen wars in my dreams before."

It's true, he hasn't.

His nightmares were usually a prediction of something of a smaller scale, but always something that could not have been avoided. 

There were times when he saw Geralt getting hurt, but no matter what they did, the witcher still ended up wounded one way or another. There were times when he saw people die, and nothing he and the witcher did was enough to save them. There were times when he saw entire villages caught up in flames, but by the time they reached said villages, there was nothing but ash left. 

That was the worst thing about all of this. The inability to change anything. 

"Don't think about it," Geralt says softly, lifting one of Jaskier's hands to his lips to press a few warm kisses to his knuckles before carefully flipping them both around and laying the bard down onto the pillows. "Think about me."

Jaskier's entire body is tense, rigid, and Geralt knows he won't be able to fall asleep again until that's fixed. So he does the only thing he can do - he kisses him. 

The bard audibly sighs, his lips still salty with tears, and return the kiss softly, one hand coming up to rest on the sharp of Geralt's jaw. It's painful and bitter at first, Jaskier's fingers shaking against the witcher's skin, but slowly, bit by bit, he relaxes into it, allowing Geralt to run his tongue over his lips, deepening the kiss gently.

"Nothing's going to hurt you," the witcher promises, breaking the kiss and bringing his lips down to Jaskier's neck, every touch feather-light. "As long as I'm alive, nothing will ever hurt you."

He trails his kisses down the bard's delicate skin, all the way to his shoulders and chest and abdomen, whispering every comforting little thing that he can think of to him and feeling the tension slowly bleed away from his shoulders as Jaskier relaxes, breathing evening out. 

"Geralt‒" he breathes. "Can you get me out of here?"

The witcher lifts his head, unsure whether or not he should tell the bard to try and go back to sleep instead, but then just nods and brushes his lips over Jaskier's one more time before quietly slipping from under the covers in search for something to throw on. 

Jaskier gets out of bed, as well, dressing up with unsteady hands and giving the witcher a tired, but grateful smile as he wraps his travelling cloak around his shoulders to keep him warm. 

"Where do you want to go?" Geralt asks as step outside, into the chilly night air. 

The bard takes in a deep breath, his mind slowly clearing, and catches Geralt's fingers, leading him down the stairs, through the yard and all the way to the gates, not saying a word until they both slip through them. 

It's a quiet night, only night birds and insects cutting through the silence with their soft cries.

The forests around Kaer Morhen are filled with the light of a full moon, making it easier for Jaskier to find his way to the river, never letting go of the witcher's hand, who follows him without questions and without saying anything overall. Sometimes, after these nightmares, what Jaskier really needed was silence. 

As they reach the river, the bard turns to the left, taking them both further away from the fortress, along the narrow riverbank where Geralt has to stay behind him not to slip into the water. 

The river is tranquil, wordless, as steady as the mountains that it flows through, and it brings the well-needed rest to Jaskier, puts his mind at ease, its soft whispers allowing him to finally close his eyes as he gets down onto the grass.

Geralt lowers himself onto the ground beside him, doesn't let go of the bard's hand but doesn't try to pull him closer, either, giving him his space and the time that he needs to get everything back in order. 

They spend a long time like that, Jaskier's eyes closed as he listens to the river flowing at his feet, letting it wash away all the fire, all the blood and all the pain that shall one day inevitably stain the Continent, but that day is not now. 

"Promise me," he then says. "Promise me that when the war comes, we'll stay together."

Geralt lifts the bard's hand to his lips, presses a warm kiss to the knuckles. 

"We'll stay together," he echoes. "Whatever happens."

Jaskier nods, sighs in relief and shifts, resting his head upon Geralt's knees. Still holding his hand and listening to the steady flow of the river, he falls asleep almost instantly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to fully dive into the atmosphere of the Gwenllech river and the surroundings of Kaer Morhen at night, I highly recommend you listen to the piano version of "Lullaby of Woe" by Streaming Music Studios which is one of the soundtracks from The Witcher III and one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.


	3. I Missed You

“Keep holding the sword like that if you wanna get yourself killed, bard!” Vesemir shouts from where he’s standing, arms folded across his chest. “Lower!”

Jaskier, exhausted from a long morning of training, dirty and fucking angry, wipes off the blood from his lip where it’d gotten split after Eskel had repelled an attack and knocked him down with his elbow.

They circle each other for a few seconds, knees bent, shoulders pushed back, until the witcher lunges forward, making Jaskier spin a swift pirouette, take a step towards Eskel and spin again, drawing his dagger and making a hard blow to the witcher’s side, right between the ribs, breaking the protective shield of Quen with an explosion of bright-yellow light that he manages to jump away from.

Breathless, he sheaths his sword that he wears on his back just like the witchers and leans down, hands resting on his knees.

“When I saw you last time, you couldn’t do that.”

Jaskier bolts up, head snapping towards the familiar voice, and his eyes immediately shine even brighter than his smile.

“Coën!”

He runs towards the witcher that’s waiting for him with open arms and, much like he did with Eskel a few days ago, jumps to drape himself over him, pulling Coën in for a hard, long kiss as soon as the older man’s arms close around him.

“I thought you were supposed to arrive next week only,” Jaskier says, pulling away just enough to brush the witcher’s dark hair out of his face.

“I was,” he nods, stealing another kiss from him. “But I missed you way too much.”

Jaskier smiles at him fondly, tenderly, and presses their lips together one last time before pulling away and letting Coën set him down onto the ground.

“It’s good to be home,” the witcher smiles, one of his hands still on Jaskier’s waist, the other one extending towards Eskel when he comes closer.

Geralt and Lambert, terminating their own training, also approach, both of them pulling Coën into an embrace, and as Geralt does so, Jaskier can feel his hand on his ass, a gesture immodest and possessive.

He bites his lip, leans into it, a tight knot of desire already tying in his lower abdomen from the feeling of both his witchers being so close to him again.

It creeps into his scent – a spicy, rich undertone to his usual chamomile, sage and lilies – and it escapes neither Geralt nor Coën, both of them exchanging a little look that the bard knows a little too well.

***

_“Fuck,” Jaskier’s voice is a broken whimper as he throws his head back, clinging on to Geralt with one hand and pulling on Coën’s hair with the other one. “Fuck, you two are going to kill me.”_

_He’s got two of Geralt’s fingers deep inside him, movements deep and slow, and Coën’s lips on his cock, painfully-good but not even a little faster._

_The witchers are comfortable around each other, having learned just the way they all like it, and are now able to enjoy all sorts of little games. Driving Jaskier completely mad with lust is a favourite._

_“Please, faster_ ‒ _“ Jaskier pleads, his nails digging into Geralt’s neck so hard that he draws blood. “Please, it’s way too much.”_

_“Quiet, Jask,” Geralt murmurs, pushing his fingers in even deeper, pressing their tips to the most sensitive spot inside, making Jaskier’s vision black out for a second but not allowing him to come. “You don’t want anyone to hear us, do you?”_

_Coën pulls away, switching his lips for his hand, stroking the bard’s cock slowly, little weightless kisses going all the way from his lower abdomen and to his lips._

_Jaskier moans into the kiss, not even able to jerk his hips towards the perfectly rough fingers, Coën’s other hand keeping him in place. He grips his dark hair tighter, desperate to make the feeling of the witcher’s tongue, sweet with his own precome, last. Even involuntarily, he bucks his hips up but the witcher just pins him to Geralt even tighter._

_"_ _Be good for me, will you, my love?” he whispers right into Jaskier’s ear, not even thinking about picking up the pace of his movements._

_Geralt’s mind goes dark with jealousy from that referring, but he knows Jaskier loves it, can hear the two simple words sending his heart rocketing even more so than before, and just bites the jealousy down. And if his fingers dig into the bard’s ribs hard enough to leave bruises, that’s just the way it is._

***

“We weren’t expecting you for another few days,” Vesemir says, batting Jaskier away to pull Coën into a tight embrace.

“Ah, well, you know,” Coën shrugs, his eyes darting towards the bard. “Cut a few corners here and there.”

Vesemir rolls his eyes.

“I’ll just pretend that it’s because you couldn’t wait to see me and not because you were eager to come back to your bard.”

Jaskier offers the man one of his disarming smiles, already back in Geralt’s arms, and Vesemir cannot resist his charm, just sighs heavily, and lets them be, retreating to his favourite spot.

Coën looks tired from the long road but squares his shoulders, nonetheless, shaking himself up and drawing his steel sword, a smile playing on his lips as he turns to Jaskier.

“You took Eskel down, but I’ve got a couple of new tricks up my sleep, do you think you can take _me_?”

Jaskier is clearly exhausted after a few hours of training, his entire body sore, fresh bruises a dull, irritating pain making him feel every step he takes, but he still draws his sword, whirls it in his hand in a swift, dangerous motion, and squares up.

“If I win,” he says, not taking his eyes off the witcher. “You’re mine.”

Coën gets his hair out of his face, strikes immediately, spinning three consecutive pirouettes but Jaskier repels his blade every time and counterattacks, aiming the edge of his sword right between the sections of Coën’s chest plate.

They move together, controlling the rhythm of their steps and constantly trying to make one another fall out of it, but they’ve been training together for way too long to even have a chance at that.

Though Jaskier is perfect at controlling his breathing, it keeps getting heavier the longer they fight, the bard way too tired to keep up with Coën’s fast, refined movements.

He spins another swift pirouette, collecting himself to counterattack once more, eyes fixed on the witcher’s carotid artery, a little bright-orange spark of Quen giving the bard the freedom he needs to act like he would on an actual battlefield.

He doesn’t strike hard enough, though, still somewhat lacking the skill of controlling the inertia of his movements, and Coën intercepts the blade of his sword with a gloved hand, yanking it towards him and making the bard stumble, losing his balance.

Jaskier curses under his breath, lets go of the sword before he can fall right into the witchers arms and jumps back, drawing his dagger in a fast and sure movement.

His eyes shine with a wildfire that could burn the Continent to ashes, fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger in a tight grip, and if there was _anyone_ other than Coën in front of him, the victory would’ve been his.

But Coën is way too fast – even when fighting like a human would – and just as Jaskier finds the right moment, the witcher breaks the pattern of his steps, lunges forward, grabbing Jaskier’s wrist mid-air, and twist his arm behind his back.

The bard kicks at him, trying to set himself free, but Coën just pulls him closer, until Jaskier’s back is pressed against his chest, and makes him drop the dagger, the grip of his fingers a little tighter.

Jaskier makes a little broken sound in the back of his throat, but gives up, the witcher’s other hand wrapped around his neck, thumb digging into the pulse point under the tender skin.

“You’re good,” Coën murmurs into his ear. “But you know that when it comes to swords I’ve got no equal.”

“I almost had you,” Jaskier tries, breathless, the heat in his lower abdomen spreading further through his body from being so close, completely trapped.

“Almost,” Coën presses a soft little kiss to the bard’s neck and lets him go, a satisfied smile pulling on the corners of his lips. “I’m gonna go settle in,” he says.

As he leaves, Jaskier lowers himself onto the ground, completely worn out, sheaths his weapons and extends an arm towards Geralt, beckoning him closer.

“You missed him?” the witcher asks, getting down and placing the bard’s head onto his lap to play with his hair.

“I missed him,” Jaskier nods, leaning into the touch and closing his eyes. “Didn’t even realise, how bad.”

Geralt cards Jaskier’s hair through his fingers, untangles it gently, his other hand resting somewhere on the bard’s chest, and Jaskier almost dozes off, completely worn out, when the witcher finally makes up his mind and tugs on the strands of the bard’s hair softly to get his attention.

Jaskier blinks his eyes open – as blue as the sky itself – and looks up at Geralt, a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

“Why are you still here?” Geralt asks, unambiguous as always.

Jaskier blinks at him.

“You mean in general or‒”

“I mean why are you still here with me?”

Jaskier sits up with a soft groan, turning to face the witcher and run his fingers across the older man’s jaw, trying to figure him out.

“Geralt, my love, we’ve been through this‒” he starts but that is the moment Geralt seems to realise the problem and shake his head.

“Gods, Jask,” he chuckles, averting his eyes. “I mean why didn’t you go after him?”

The bard bites his lip, hand still on Geralt’s jaw as he shrugs tentatively.

“Should I have?” he finally asks. “I mean, I was planning on getting him into our bed tonight, but if that’s not something you want, then‒”

He cuts himself short, noticing Lambert that’s trying awfully hard not to seem like he’s listening and failing completely. Geralt follows the bard’s gaze, makes a move towards the younger witcher like he’s about to tackle him to the ground, and Lambert disappears immediately, having not even found something to say.

“I can feel it in your scent, you know,” Geralt says, turning to face the bard again. “Can hear the way your breath hitches when you’re caught between us.”

He shifts, suddenly so close that Jaskier can feel the heat of his body, and pulls the bard towards him to whisper into his ear, hot and intoxicating:

“I want you to go after him, lock the door and come back to me in a few hours, your entire body covered in fresh marks.”

Jaskier’s heart skips a beat from those words, heat surging through his entire body as he lets out a shaky breath and scrambles to his feet, managing to pull Geralt in for a hard kiss on his way.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes into his lips, impatient, and, before any of them can change their mind, leaves.

***

Jaskier slips through the door of Coën’s room softly, silently, closing the door behind him and leaning against it for a few long seconds, watching the witcher fumble with his armour.

Coën’s got his back to him, but Jaskier knows that he’s listening, picks up his heartbeat, his breathing, his every move, and _gods_ , Jaskier missed him.

“You want help with that?” he asks, gesturing towards the armour.

Coën turns to him, narrows his eyes like he’s thinking about it, but then, before the bard can say anything else, crosses the distance between them and pushes Jaskier up against the wall, crashing their lips together.

Jaskier moans into the kiss, both arms coming up to wrap around the witcher’s neck as he obediently parts his lips to let Coën lick into his mouth with a hunger that sends his head spinning immediately.

His lip stings where it’s gotten split during the training, and Jaskier can feel the heavy, sweet tang of his own blood that makes the witcher pin him to the wall even harder. Somewhere very deep in his mind, Jaskier thinks that he should probably stop letting his witchers do that.

“Take me to bed,” he manages, completely breathless when they finally pull away from each other. “The training was rough on me.”

Coën doesn’t have to be asked twice, so he just pulls on the edge of the bard’s armour, biting into his lips again, and backs away until his calves hit the bed and they can both fall onto it.

He knows the way Jaskier likes it with him, knows that when it’s just the two of them, the bard wants something entirely different to what he wants when they’re all together.

Never breaking the kiss, Coën flips them both over, pinning Jaskier to the bed and reaching down to unbuckle the belts of his armour one by one.

“I missed you,” he whispers, pushing his knee between the bard’s legs, making him gasp and arch his back.

Jaskier is covered with Geralt’s marks, bruises from the training and a few little cuts here and there from not being careful enough when averting someone else’s blade. His skin is not as flawlessly-smooth as it used to be before he realised that a weapon in his hand feels almost good as his lute, but somehow it’s even more perfect now.

Coën brushes his lips over a fresh bruise on the bard’s collarbone, soft enough not to cause any pain, hands travelling further down his slender body, undoing the buttons of his shirt, the armour already somewhere on the floor.

“I missed you,” Jaskier echoes, sliding his hands under the witcher’s shirt impatiently to dig his nails into his back. “Missed the way you kiss me, the way you touch me.” He gasps softly as Coën presses his knee against him harder. “ _Missed the way you fuck me._ ”

Jaskier is way too good with words, and before he can even say anything else, the witcher is already unbuckling his belt, pressing soft comforting kisses to every love-bite, bruise and bite mark he sees, licking his wounds.

He’s so different to Geralt that the contrast still makes Jaskier’s head spin.

He’s so much more gentle, patient, tender, able to make the bard crumble into pieces with just his lips, and even though they both know that Jaskier likes it rough, that it’s Geralt who’s perfect for him, they’re never able to let each other go until both of them are completely worn out.

But _oh_ , Coën is also good with words.

“I thought about you what seems like every night,” he murmurs into the bard’s ear, reaching one hand into his trousers to brush his fingers over Jaskier’s cock, already obscenely hard. “Couldn’t get you out of my head even when I would stop at brothels or spend the night in someone’s bed.”

Jaskier arches his back, leaning into the touch, chasing the feeling of the witcher’s fingers on him. He tugs Coën’s shirt off of him, tosses it to the side, his hands immediately finding their way to the older man’s chest, brushing over the firm muscles and scars, counting them over and over again.

There’s a fresh one right on the witcher’s abdomen and Jaskier can’t help it but reach up and brush his lips over it, one hand coming up to wrap around Coën’s neck to pull him closer.

“Where’s this one from?” he whispers, looking up at the witcher.

“A water hag,” Coën replies without even looking, way too busy with covering Jaskier’s neck with kisses and fresh marks. “Stumbled upon one a few months ago, couldn’t turn away in time.”

Jaskier presses an open palm to the scar – an affectionate, comforting gesture – and moans softly when Coën wraps his fingers around his cock, stroking slowly.

Jaskier’s blood is still boiling from an entire morning of training, he’s on edge, every sense heightened, and every touch resonates through his entire body like fire.

“Keep talking to me,” he chokes out, impatiently undoing the buttons on Coën’s trousers and tugging them down together with the underwear, desperate to finally touch him, feel him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you‒” Coën whispers, stripping them both of the remains of their clothes. “Kept imagining your hands, your lips, your body, always so hot and malleable for me. Kept thinking about your voice when you whisper all those dirty little things to me, when you tell me how close you are, repeat my name over and over again like it’s everything you know.”

“ _Gods‒_ ” Jaskier gasps, his mind going dark with lust, pupils blown so wide that there’s almost no blue left in his eyes. “Just fuck me already.”

Coën chuckles softly but doesn’t make the bard ask twice, pulling away from him for just a few seconds to reach over into one of his bags and find a phial with oil that fills the entire room with a familiar smell of clove as soon as he opens it.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispers into the bard’s lips before covering them with his own and slowly pushing a finger inside him.

Jaskier moans into his lips, eyes rolling with pleasure, and digs his nails into Coën’s shoulders, leaving behind bright-red scratches. His entire body is a tightly coiled spring of desire, lust burning through his veins like fire, the heavy, hot air barely leaving him any chances to breathe.

“Fuck, Coën, just‒” he chokes out, head spinning. “Just get your goddamn fingers in me.”

With Coën, he barely needs to ask for anything, the witcher gives him everything he wants regardless. With Geralt, he has to take what he wants. With both of them, he has to beg.

“You don’t want to take it slow this time, do you?” Coën murmurs into his ear, spreading Jaskier’s knees wider and starting a new trail of kisses down his neck and chest before adding a second finger, stretching him faster.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, rolls his hips, taking the witcher’s fingers in deeper, and grips his dark hair tightly, arching his back when Coën bites him. It’s not hard enough to draw blood like Geralt does, but the feeling of sharp teeth still makes Jaskier’s vision go dark for a second.

“I could barely sleep yesterday, thinking about how I’ll see you again in a matter of hours,” Coën goes on, obliging the bard’s desire to hear him. “About your taste, your smell, driving myself insane with the longing for you.”

It’s getting too much for Jaskier to take and he pulls the witcher up to his lips to shut him up, reaching down with one hand to wrap his fingers tightly around Coën’s cock, rubbing the sticky precome over its entire length, nearly making the witcher come from that alone.

Breaking the kiss only to take in a lungful of air, Coën adds a third finger, making Jaskier shudder and roll his hips again, clinging onto the witcher hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. He can barely wait, can barely find it in him to allow himself time to adjust, and the mere second his body fully relaxes, he wraps his legs around Coën’s waist.

“Quiet, my love,” Coën reminds, pulling his fingers out and bracing himself against the mattress to bite a new mark into Jaskier’s neck and slowly push in.

Jaskier fucking hates that he has to keep his voice down when he’s with Coën. Hates that his bedroom is not far enough for him to be as loud as he can be with Geralt.

Granted, he’s never as loud with Coën as he is with Geralt anyways, but he’d love to have that option.

“ _Gods_ , I missed you,” Jaskier chokes out, biting his lip until it bleeds again, the little sparks of pain flying up his spine only adding to just how fucking good he feels.

Coën stops, giving him time, but the bard just pulls him closer with his legs, rolling his eyes with pleasure as the witcher pushes in all the way and rocks his hips slowly, sending shivers through both of them.

“Faster‒” Jaskier pleads. “Don’t be gentle with me, not now.”

Coën can’t say “no” to him, can’t keep up the slow pace of his movements, pulling Jaskier into a deep, wet kiss and moving his hips faster.

Jaskier throws his head back, choking down moans and soft whimpers, arms wrapped around Coën’s neck to keep him close. He responds to every kiss, every bite, every new mark that blooms blood-red on his otherwise pale skin, growing louder as the witcher thrusts into him harder.

They move as one, bodies wet and hot with sweat, the air around them so heavy that it’s nearly impossible to breathe, leaving them both panting.

Unable and unwilling to control himself, Jaskier keeps whispering all kinds of dirty nonsense into the witcher’s lips, telling him just how much he missed him, how good it feels to have him inside and _gods, yes, just like that_.

Coën licks the blood off of the bard’s split lip, savours the taste that’s always been sweeter than any wine, moves even faster, the entire room filled with the wet, dirty sound of flesh on flesh. He can smell Jaskier’s pleasure growing sharper, hotter, can smell the precome that he’s leaking with, almost tastes it on his tongue, and all of that is just too much.

“Come on,” he whispers, sucking another mark onto the bard’s neck. “For me.”

And that’s enough to push Jaskier over the edge.

He makes a loud, broken sound in the back of his throat and comes over both of them, arching his back until it hurts.

He shivers all over, nails digging into Coën’s shoulders so hard that the witcher can smell his own blood, and the way Jaskier fucking _clenches_ around him sends his head reeling, a slowly building orgasm finally washing over him.

For a few endless seconds, they’re both just trying to breathe, Jaskier unlocking his ankles behind the witcher’s back and falling heavily back onto the bed, still holding Coën close by the neck. Then, with shaky hands, he lets him go and gets his hair out of his face, eyes slowly fluttering open.

“You think they heard us?” he asks, nuzzling closer to the witcher as he pulls away to lie down next to him.

“I think they heard _you_ ,” Coën grins back, throwing one arm across Jaskier’s waist and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “But it’s not like they don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what can I say, I've got a real weakness for Jaskier with a weapon _and_ an even bigger one for the idea of him sleeping with not just one but two witchers  
> also, I swear to God, I wasn't planning on smut in this chapter, but as I've said, I've got little to none self-restraint


	4. Each Other

"I'm dying," Jaskier whimpers from where he's plastered on the bed, hugging a pillow. 

He's got nothing but light training trousers on, the sun playing on his skin, and it's now been almost an hour of him trying everything he can to get Geralt's attention.

The witcher is at the table, mixing his potions and darting glances at him every now and then, grinning but not really acknowledging the bard in any other way.

"I am _dying_ , Geralt," Jaskier pushes, sitting up on the bed and getting his hair out of his face. "No one's giving me attention."

"No one?" the witcher teases, cocking a brow at him.

Jaskier gets up from the bed, takes a few determined steps towards Geralt, then stops to get a better look at the ingredients on the table, along which there are nekker hearts, and decides that he'll be better off on the balcony. He does, however, press a kiss to the witcher's silver hair, trying very hard not to look at the table any closer before he heads to the opposite side of the room. 

For a few minutes, he's completely silent, watching something in the valley below, then lifts his gaze to run it over the mountaintops, covered in snow even this time of year. 

Over the course of the last few winters, Geralt had shown him most of the fortress' surroundings, and Jaskier had fallen head over heels in love with the place that he had now called home. It inspired him, he wrote song after song, spent hours outside, in the cold, exploring the forests, the valleys and the lakes, turning his emotions into music and then singing the newly composed works to Geralt when they would go to sleep, his voice only a little above whisper. 

To Geralt, who had originally feared that the bard would miss the atmosphere of a city too much, it was everything he could ever ask for and more.

"I've never seen a place as beautiful as Kaer Morhen," Jaskier finally says, without turning. 

Geralt considers it for a moment, thinking about all the places they've been to together, everything they've seen.

"Not even Dol Blathanna?" he asks. "The Valley of Flowers?"

"Not even that."

Putting all of his things aside and wiping his hands on a towel, Geralt comes closer, wrapping his arms around the bard and nosing at his neck, leaving little weightless kisses on it. 

"Wish you could've seen it before the siege, before everything got ruined," he says, the slightest edge of bitter regret to his voice. "You would've loved it."

Jaskier turns around in his arms, cups his jaw with one hand, reaches up to press a gentle kiss to the witcher's pale lips. There's so much adoration in his eyes that it sends a shiver down Geralt's spine.

"I love it the way it is," Jaskier smiles, braiding his other hand into Geralt's silver hair. "And, _gods_ , I love you."

The witcher leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut, and it's not a way that he's used to being but it's a way that he'd learned to let himself be.

Jaskier truly brought out the best in him and moments like this kept proving to both of them just how much Geralt changed. How he allowed himself to be gentle, vulnerable, open. 

It wasn't easy for either of them, and there were still times when Geralt would close himself in, whether it was just a bad day or a defensive mechanism. On days like that, it would take Jaskier a long time to make it all alright again, to remind the witcher that he can trust him, that it's all okay. 

With soft kisses and gentle hands, he would break the barriers Geralt had built over the years one by one, slowly but surely making his way through all of them.

"Love me, do you?" Geralt finally says, teasing again. 

"Mmm," Jaskier seems awfully concentrated on untying Geralt's hair with one hand. Or, at least, attempting to. "That's right."

For a moment, the witcher thinks about the risk, but then just scoops Jaskier into his arms and places him down onto the bannister of the balcony, having decided that it's safe enough. The bard makes some kind of a small amused sound at that, his eyes gleaming, brighter than the sky above. 

"And how long has it been?" the witcher asks, his grin all sharp teeth. 

"Ah, let me see," Jaskier bites his lip, averts his eyes like he's counting. "Twelve years, I'd say."

"So ever since you met me?"

They're alone in the fortress, all the other witchers gone to hunt drowners near the lake, mostly for fun, and Geralt uses that, pressing his lips to the bard's collarbone right there, on their balcony, as there is nobody around to see them. Not that he would've really cared, otherwise, since they've still got that little game of theirs going on.

"So ever since I met you," Jaskier nods, wrapping his slender legs around Geralt to pull him in closer.

He finally unties the witcher's hair, runs his hands through it to arrange it in a way that he likes, then pulls Geralt in by the collar of his shirt to kiss him again, licking into his mouth slowly, arms thrown around his neck. 

"You're so pretty with your hair down," he smiles, pulling away. "Should wear it like this more often."

On some level, Geralt was still not used to this. 

To entire days, spent together with no rush, no contracts, no danger. Entire days spent in each other's arms because they simply didn't have to go anywhere. 

Sometimes, they would ride down to the lake and ice-skate there, Jaskier always showing off and somehow not falling. And if he did fall, he had his witchers to take care of the bruises. 

Sometimes, they would ride to the abandoned bastion to train alone, just the two of them, and those trainings somehow always ended with Jaskier being pressed up against a wall, Geralt's hands and lips all over him.

It was all a little game they both played, pretending like they're not allowed to touch each other like that back in the fortress and running away to the bastion to hide from prying eyes.

Fucking right there, against a cold stone wall, without even undressing properly, kept both of them hot enough not to feel the cold of winter. 

Other times, they would go hunting and spend the entire day riding through the forests, talking about anything and everything that came to mind. 

Or they could keep silent for a good few hours, so comfortable around each other that there was no need for words. On days like that, Jaskier would ask Geralt to only take Roach with them, for even though he now had his own horse, sometimes he wanted to ride with the witcher, resting comfortably against his chest. 

His own horse - a gorgeous black and grey gelding called Cain, adored rolling in the snow, though, so whenever they took him out on a hunt, Jaskier would allow him plenty of time to have his fun. Eventually, Roach grew rather fond of rolling around in the snow, as well, biting at Cain affectionately every now and then. 

It was more than perfect. 

And sometimes, when it was too cold outside or Jaskier just felt like it, they would spend the entire day in bed, not bothering with dressing up and just studying each other's bodies slowly with hands and lips and tongues. It was because of days like that that Jaskier knew every single scar that Geralt had, and the witcher knew every sweet little spot on the younger man's body that was for one reason or another more sensitive than everything else. 

Even so, Jaskier loved asking about the scars like it was the first time he sees them. 

***

_"This one," Jaskier murmurs, following the outline of a thin scar on the witcher's ribs with his lips, hot and wet and slightly swollen from Geralt's hungry, raw kisses._

_"A bruxa," the witcher replies without looking, his hand tangled up in the younger man's hair, eyes closed. "Even before I met you."_

_Jaskier hums something pleased and pulls back slightly, running his gaze over Geralt's entire body, both of them completely naked. He bites his lip, choosing which scar it is that interests him the most, quick gentle fingers following the trail of short winter-white hair running down his lover's lower abdomen and sending a shiver through his body, still a little too sensitive after two orgasms back-to-back._

_"This one," he finally says, leaning down to Geralt's thigh and running his lips over a scar on the inner side of it, shamelessly pushing his knees apart._

_Geralt wouldn't say it, but he adored the way Jaskier would just take whatever he wanted from him._

_"A knife," Geralt says, tugging on the bard's chestnut hair a little to get another kiss in the same place. "Yours."_

_Granted, it was Geralt's own fault._

_He should've never tried to see just how good had Jaskier gotten in self-defence, without casting a Quen over himself first. Sneaking up to him in the middle of the night was a stupid idea. Assuming that he wouldn't be quick enough to draw his dagger was an even stupider one._

_It hurt like hell, Jaskier's weapon just as sharp as a witcher's, but as he was stitching the wound together, he had for some reason decided to lean down and lick the blood off, which led to arguably the best sex they've ever had._

_"I could've cut your throat back then, **Witcher** ," Jaskier murmurs, pressing his tongue to the scar. "Didn't only because I was too low."_

_"Dying by your hand would not have been the worst of deaths," Geralt knows perfectly that that little mark on his thigh turns Jaskier on every single time and he would've lied if he said that the memories didn't do the same to him. "Probably the best one now that I think about it."_

_That's a little too much for Jaskier to take, so he pulls himself up, eyes shining in the low light of the fireplace, and presses his lips to Geralt's, licking into his mouth immediately and rolling his hips ever so slightly._

_Beyond the familiar chamomile, sage and lilies, he smells of sex, alcohol and **Geralt** , and that's fucking intoxicating. _

_"Still can't believe you fucked me right in the middle of the forest, in the snow," the bard grins, pulling away and switching all of his attention to the thin white scar to suck a blood-red love-bite onto the witcher's pale skin right above it. "Got blood all over the place."_

_"You loved it."_

_Jaskier, being an insufferable tease as always, runs his tongue over the entire length of Geralt's half-hard cock, making the witcher gasp softly from not having expected it._

_"Oh, I did love it," Jaskier grins, pleased with the reaction he got. "What do you say you tell me about a few more of your scars and I give you that third orgasm, hm? How does that sound?"_

_It' s not even fully dark outside yet, and Geralt knows that Jaskier is not **nearly** done with him, so there is no way in a thousand years that he would say "no" to him. _

_"Which one interests you next?" he asks, feeling almost disappointed when the bard pulls away from his thigh._

_Jaskier considers it for a moment, then grins, all sharp teeth._

_"This one," he says, leaning down again and sucking softly on the witcher's skin where it's stretched over a hipbone. There's an uneven scar there that stands out milk-white. "One of my favourites."_

_Geralt bites his lip, feeling his cock getting heavier because Jaskier knows a little too well that that's a sensitive spot._

_"A forktail," he manages. "You know that as well as I. Partly because Coёn has one of these, too."_

_"He does," Jaskier smiles, clearly so very pleased with himself. "On his back, right under the left shoulder blade. I love digging my nails into it when he's deep inside me, you know."_

_A sharp sting of jealousy cuts through Geralt’s veins like fire._

_He knows the bard is just teasing him, playing with him to see how long he will last but, gods, it’s a game that Geralt had never been good at._

_He was completely fine with whatever it was that Jaskier and Coёn shared, as long as they both had fun and Jaskier remained his, but sometimes the bard would choose his words a little too perfectly._

_"I will press you into the bed and fuck you within an inch of your life," the witcher warns, gasping again as Jaskier sinks his teeth into the scar._

_"You will do no such thing," the bard grins again, pushing Geralt's legs further apart to make himself comfortable between them. "I'm not done with you yet."_

_Geralt's refractory period is non-existent, that's true, but he's still overly sensitive from the last two orgasms, and Jaskier uses that as he pleases, trailing wet kisses down the witcher's lower abdomen, following the thin line of fine white hair until he gets to the base of his cock, where the hair is denser, and noses at it, breathing in the rich, musky scent. It's almost embarrassing how his mouth waters immediately._

_"The one on your neck," Jaskier says, without looking, way too busy with getting Geralt hard for him._

_His mouth is absolutely incredible._

_"A striga," the witcher breathes out, throwing his head back to rest it on the pillows. "The cursed princess. It was when we already knew each other, only a year before we got together and‒"_

_And then he can't talk anymore, because Jaskier wraps his lips around the tip of his cock and his mind goes blank._

***

"You want to go for a swim in the river?" Jaskier asks, his hands already on the buttons of Geralt's shirt somehow. "All the way to the caves."

Geralt throws a glance over his shoulder, to where all of his potion ingredients are still waiting for him on the table. He knows he should go back to that, but then again, Jaskier's hands are already on his chest. 

Sometimes, the bard would play against the rules to get what he wanted, but gods, it was impossible to resist him.

"You need attention every waking moment, don't you?" the witcher chuckles, but he's already given up. 

"Every single one," Jaskier agrees, following the outline of Geralt's collarbone with his lips.

Geralt throws his head back, pulls the bard closer so that he doesn't lose the feeling of his lips on his skin, but before he can close his eyes, Jaskier bites him and pulls back, laughing. 

"Come, love," he says. "Let's get to that river and you can have my lips all over you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, this chapter mostly exist to show how these two have spent the last three and a half years and to also show that Jask is absolutely feral which happens to be something that I'm incredibly weak for  
> 


	5. Confessions

Jaskier hated sleeping alone. 

Always has, but over the last three and a half years he had gotten so used to having Geralt at his side, that now sleeping alone was almost unbearable. 

Geralt had gone out hunting boars with Eskel, and even though Jaskier could've asked to come with them, he knew that they want to spend a few days alone just like they did every winter for years upon years. 

Without the witcher, the bed seemed cold and way too big, and whenever Jaskier closed his eyes, the memories of his last nightmare kept flashing before his eyes. The smoke, the blood, the black armour casting red and orange scarlets from the fires that burn wherever you turn. Closing his eyes, Jaskier felt like there was something lurking in the shadows of the bedroom, something that was waiting for him to fall asleep. Something that he wouldn't be able to protect himself from because no weapon could be used against it.

He hated to admit it, but after his nightmares became worse, he was scared of the dark. 

Jaskier turns for what seems like the hundredth time, wraps his arms tighter around Geralt's pillow, breathes in the familiar scent, trying to calm himself down and finally fall asleep, but he knows that that's not going to happen. It's late at night, the room barely illuminated by the pale light of the moon. 

He can barely see anything, and fear creeps into his heart and mind like an insect, thin long limbs sending cold shivers down his spine. His breathing is heavy, heart skipping beats every time he hears the slightest noise. 

He bites his lip hard, hisses because it still hurts where it'd gotten split during a training, and makes himself take in a few calming breaths to stop clenching onto the blanket. 

"It's alright," he tells himself, voice breaking. "It's an irrational fear, nothing's gonna hurt you."

But he knows that's not true. 

He knows that all of his nightmares turn to life eventually, and whatever he does, he cannot change anything. If he's unable to as much as keep Geralt safe, there is no way that he's able to stop a war. One day, it will come, and then the only thing left to do would be to wait for it to end because there would just be no other options. It's either living to see it end or dying with thousands of others. 

Making an effort over himself, Jaskier gets out of bed, the floor cold under his feet, clenches his fists and slips out of the room, making himself look only down so that he doesn't see the shadows in the corners. 

Kaer Morhen, usually familiar and safe, is now silent and ominous, the corridors lit with nothing but the moonlight coming from the windows, and Jaskier has to hold on to a wall with one hand to keep track of where he's going. 

He takes the stairs down, crosses one of the lower floors to get to the other wing of the fortress, opens and closes countless doors silently, follows the completely dark inner corridor almost all the way to the back before he finally finds the right door and knocks on it quietly, still doubting himself. 

For a few seconds, he just stands there, biting his lips and looking around him nervously until the door opens and Coёn appears in the doorway, his dark hair messy from sleep, green eyes glowing softly in the darkness. 

"Jask?" he blinks the sleep away, runs his hand through his hair. "What are you doing here so late?"

Jaskier keeps staring at the floor, collecting the courage he needs. 

"Сan't sleep," he finally says, clenching his teeth because he can't bring himself to tell the full truth. "Can I stay with you?"

Without any other words, the witcher steps aside, letting Jaskier into the room and closing the door behind him. 

The room is completely silent, the night so dark that not even the animals in the forest dare to make any noise that would come through the open windows so that it doesn't feel like the time had stopped. 

Jaskier looks around the room like he's waiting for something to appear out of a dark corner, rubs at his shoulders to comfort himself, and he fucking hates that Coёn sees him like this, but he's the only one that he can come to. 

"What's wrong?" the witcher asks softly, coming closer and wrapping his arms around Jaskier to hug him from the back. 

Deep in his mind, Jaskier wishes it was Geralt. It would've been so much easier that way. 

He cannot bring himself to relax into Coёn's arms, fear still gripping at his throat, and all Jaskier can do is turn around and wrap his arms around the witcher's neck, pulling him closer and hiding his face somewhere in his shoulder. He feels like he's about to cry and suppresses it as much as he can because Coёn had never seen him in tears. Not like this, at least.

"If you're worried about Geralt, don't be," Coёn says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the bard's hair. "Though boars can be dangerous, he knows what he's doing. And he's got Eskel with him, they're both completely safe."

I am worried about Geralt, Jaskier thinks bitterly, I'm worried about what can happen to him on the war that I saw. 

"I've had a nightmare," he finally says, and he _wants_ to tell the whole truth, but he just can't. "Can't sleep because of it."

It's been a little over a week since that night. He tried his best not to let the future that he saw affect him in any way during the day, and he succeeded as always, but at night, wrapped up safely in Geralt's arms, he would break down under the weight of knowing that there's nothing he can do to change anything and the fear that came with it.

The fear was paralyzing. Cold, disarming, devastating. 

_"I don't know what I will do if I lose you,"_ Jaskier would say, words choked in his throat together with tears. _"I don't know what I will do, Geralt."_

Perhaps, it was just now that Jaskier realised just how much he loved him. How he couldn't picture his life without Geralt anymore. Realised that he loved him so much that it _hurt_.

He didn't know when the war will come, but he knew that it one day it will, and even if they stay as far away from it as possible, war isn't something that you can run from. Not something that you can live through and remain the way you were before, remain unaffected, unharmed, unscarred. And the war that he saw wasn't a local one, something that you can just wait through, it was a fire that would burn the entire North down, and there would be no place to hide. 

Though Geralt promised him that no matter what happens, they'll stay together, Jaskier was still scared that something will separate them. That he'll have to keep himself going every day until the war ends without knowing if Geralt is alive or not and without knowing if the war is ever going to end. Because when war comes, the time freezes. 

"Jaskier," Coёn calls softly, and it's just now that the bard realises that it's not the first time he does that. "Look at me."

Jaskier knows that his eyes are welled up with tears, knows that Coёn will see them even in the darkness, but pulls away nonetheless, allowing the witcher to take a better look at him. 

"Whatever that dream was about, it's all over now," Coёn says, cupping the bard's jaw with one hand and leaning in to touch his lips to his forehead. "It's not real."

Oh, Jaskier thinks, Oh, how I wish you were right. 

"Kiss me," he says instead, voice breaking. "Make me forget."

Coёn had never seen him like this before. Gods, before that nightmare not even Geralt had seen Jaskier so shattered.

His nightmares did make him cry almost every time, but it was never like this. It never lasted for days, never made the bard seem so vulnerable, so cornered. No matter what Geralt did or said, Jaskier couldn't get the flashing images out of his head, fire and blood taking the shine away from his eyes. He kept crying himself to sleep, and it tore the witcher's heart apart. 

"Kiss me," he says again. "Please."

Coёn's lips are soft - softer that Geralt's - and the kiss is gentle enough to make Jaskier close his eyes, letting his guard down. 

Jaskier knows that he can trust him, that he can tell the younger witcher everything that's bothering him, but he just can't bring himself to. He doesn't know where to start, doesn't know how to explain the nightmares and that there's nothing he can do to change anything. Doesn't know what to say if Coёn asks why haven't Jaskier said anything sooner. After all, they've been together long enough for Coёn to have the right to know.

The first winter Jaskier had spent in Kaer Morhen, he'd gotten close with all the witchers, but it was soon enough that he started noticing the way Coёn looked at him. It flattered him because there were very few things that the bard loved more than attention, but for the first few months, it did not lead anywhere, though Jaskier did feel his emotions and his desires build and grow with every passing day.

Then, when it was the last month of winter and the tension had gotten sharp enough for the air between them to feel electrified, Jaskier couldn't take it anymore and talked to Geralt, who just rolled his eyes and said that it had taken them long enough to figure everything out. It was not the reaction that Jaskier had expected but then again, Geralt was a complicated man. 

Their first kiss was messy and hurried, they both knew that it's not something that they should be allowed, but it didn't take them long to get used to each other, becoming braver with every touch, until they locked themselves in Coёn's bedroom. 

Coёn was both similar to Geralt in terms of being very physical in his affections, leaving love-bites and marks behind, and incredibly different in terms of being so much more gentle. He didn't bite - not so hard that he'd draw blood anyway - he didn't bind Jaskier's wrists together with handcuffs, didn't rush. He couldn't make pain feel good, like Geralt did, but he didn't need to, as that wasn't something that Jaskier wanted with him. 

With Coёn, Jaskier wanted to be treated gently. He wanted - aside from exceptions - to take things slow, wanted kisses and careful hands, wanted all kinds of affectionate nonsense whispered into his ear. 

Geralt knew how to be gentle with him, as well, if they were in that kind of a mood, but it wasn't really in his nature, whereas for Coёn it was. The younger witcher could make Jaskier melt and crumble under his lips and hands until his entire body was pliant, like wax.

Coёn loved him, and Jaskier knew that. All three of them knew that. 

Just as well as they knew that Jaskier belongs to Geralt only. 

"You're so tense," Coёn says softly, pulling away and breaking the kiss. "What is it, Jask?"

Jaskier is scared to tell him. He doesn't know what Coёn will say, how he will react, but what he does know is that he'll have to tell him eventually, and that waiting might only make things worse. Coёn deserved to know why Jaskier would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and then wouldn't be able to fall asleep until daybreak, why he barely ever stayed for the night, even though they both loved falling asleep together. 

Jaskier takes in a deep breath, licks his lips nervously, eyes fixed on the floor. 

"I'll tell you my secret if you tell me yours," he finally says, lifting his gaze back up to catch the confused look in the witcher's green eyes. 

"What are you talking about?"

They both know what Jaskier is talking about. 

"The scar on your abdomen," Jaskier explains still. "The one that you won't let me touch. Tell me where it's from."

This time it's Coёn that averts his eyes, not looking at the bard for a few long seconds, one of his hands unconsciously coming up to rest on the scar on his lower abdomen.

"Why do you want to know?" he finally asks, voice low and tired. 

Carefully, Jaskier places his hand over Coёn's, and the witcher tenses under the touch but doesn't pull away.

Much like Jaskier never talked about his nightmares, Coёn never talked about that scar. The witcher had learned on their very first night together that Jaskier loved asking about the scars, loved tracing them, listening to the stories behind each and every one, and Coёn gladly allowed him, but the second the bard's fingers brushed over the long, uneven scar on his lower abdomen, Coёn immediately took his hand away. Do anything you want to me, he said then, Touch me anywhere you want but not there. 

"Because I want to be able to touch it when we're together," Jaskier says softly, slowly pulling Coёn's hand away and replacing it with his own, covering the scar through the thin fabric of the witcher's shirt. "Want to brush my lips over it, make you forget about whatever it was that gave it to you," leaning in closer, Jaskier touches his lips to Coёn's. "Please."

It's so dark that he can barely see the witcher, but he still catches the way his face changes when he sighs softly, giving in. 

"I'll tell you," he nods finally, taking Jaskier by the hand and leading him to the bed. "Come on, get in, it's cold."

It _is_ cold, little shivers running down Jaskier's arms and legs, and he's happy to get under the covers and rest his head upon Coёn chest when he gets into the bed, as well. It's easier to talk without looking at each other. 

For some time, they're both silent, Jaskier calming himself down and Coёn looking for the right words. Then, the witcher takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly. 

"I was young," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Or young for a witcher, at least. Had a complicated contract in Oxenfurt, stayed there for a few months because of it, and ended up meeting someone that I trusted way too fast. I don't know what it was about him, he just... saw me as something more than a witcher and back then I wasn't who I am now, so I felt like he's the only one to see me like that."

Jaskier listens silently, unconsciously presses himself closer to Coёn, leaning into the touch as he wraps an arm around the bard's shoulders in a comforting, protective gesture. 

"Wasn't long before I realised I've fallen in love with him," Coёn continues and from the way his voice sounds Jaskier knows that he'd never told this to anyone before. "I didn't really know to do about it and almost decided to just leave, giving no shit about the unfinished contract, but when I came to him to say goodbye, well, it turned out that he shared my feeling. Or, at least, that was what he said to me back then."

"Didn't you tell me that you were never in love before me?" Jaskier asks and he doesn't even know why he brings that up.

Coёn makes a sound like he wants to chuckle but doesn't have the energy to.

"No," he says. "I told you that I've never loved anyone before you."

Jaskier's heart skips a beat at that. 

"Coёn-" he starts, but the witcher cuts him short.

"Don't," he says. "I knew what I was getting into on our first winter together."

Jaskier bites his lips, averting his eyes. Knowing that Coёn loved him was one thing, but knowing that he's the only one the witcher has _ever_ loved is a totally different one. 

"You keep forgetting I can tell your emotions by your scent," Coёn reminds, sitting up on the bed and pulling Jaskier with him. 

Reflecting the moonlight, Coёn's eyes glow softly in the darkness. He cups Jaskier's jaw with one hand, brushes away a stubborn lock of his chestnut hair before leaning in and pressing the softest of kisses to his dry parted lips. 

"Don't think about it," he says, voice almost a whisper. "I don't want anything to change between us."

Chasing the feeling of the witcher's soft lips, Jaskier pulls him in again, one hand tangled up in his dark hair and the other one wrapped around the back of his neck. He wants to tell Coёn that he loves him, but he cannot. Because he doesn't. 

Not in a way that Coёn loves him. Not in a way that he loves Geralt.

Jaskier _could_ love them both, and he most certainly did but those were two completely different feelings, and if he were to say something now, it just wouldn't be right. It might not mean the same thing to him and to the witcher.

He had said it before, more often than he would care to count, but right now it might just ruin everything. 

What he felt for Coёn was hot and tender and pleasant and it made some sort of weakness spill pleasantly through his entire body whenever they were together, but what he felt for Geralt was... he could drown in it. 

He loved Geralt so much that he couldn't find the words for it, couldn't express it. Whenever they were together, Jaskier's emotions overwhelmed him and sometimes he would refuse to let the witcher go for hours, just resting his head upon his chest and playing with his hair, murmuring all kinds of affectionate nonsense to him; peppering kisses all over his face and chest and hands and thighs like he wanted to map out his entire body in his mind. At first, it was not easy for Geralt to allow them moments like that but soon enough he grew fond of that kind of intimacy. 

In his feelings for Geralt, there was everything: desire and lust that burned through Jaskier's veins like fire, love and tenderness that would sometimes be _so much_ that it would bring him to tears, adoration and trust that made the bard allow Geralt anything and everything he wanted, indulge in his every desire and fantasy. 

Jaskier loved him not just with his entire heart but with his entire _being,_ and a feeling like that was only meant for one.

He did love Coёn, because how could he not, but the feeling for him was... simpler. 

Not worse in any way but simpler nonetheless. He felt good with Coёn, cared for him deeply and wanted him with a passion that left the witcher covered in marks and scratches every single time. He loved him but in a way that he loved people before Geralt, in a way that he loved people that _weren't_ Geralt. And maybe a little more than that. 

But it was still different from what Coёn felt for him.

"Coёn-" he says again, pulling away, his breathing now heavier. "Do you mean it?"

"Why would I lie to you?"

For the second time of the night, Jaskier feels like he's going to cry. 

It's just all so much, with the nightmares and the constant fear and the overwhelming emotions that he'll have to deal with by morning, and all Jaskier really wants to do right now is to push Coёn back onto the pillows and kiss him again, allowing both of them to forget about everything else but he knows that if they don't talk now, they might never do. 

So he just sighs softly and reaches one hand down to place it over the scar on Coёn's abdomen, hidden by the fabric of his shirt. The witcher tenses again, but not as much as he did last time. 

"Tell me what happened next."

Reluctantly, the coordination of his movements slightly distorted, Coёn pulls on the edge of his shirt, bunching it up and allowing the bard to brush his fingers directly over the uneven, jagged scar. When Jaskier toches him, the witcher sucks in a breath, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw like Jaskier's touch burns him. 

"We've spent a little over two years together," he finally says, recollecting himself. "Travelled the Continent, shared beds, clothes, food. I could barely even imagine my life without him anymore, didn't come home for two winters in a row because I wasn't really ready to tell anyone and, furthermore, not a lot of people can actually make it to Kaer Morhen and back, especially in winter," Coёn shifts, sitting back against the headboard of the bed and pulling Jaskier onto his lap, holding him close and safe. "I still don't know how you do it every single year. But then again, with your training and skills and everything, you're practically a witcher by now."

Jaskier can't hold back a flattered, nearly shy smile and even though Coёn falls silent again, he allows him his time. 

"We've spent most of the winter in Oxenfurt and when it got warmer again, returned to Novigrad where, as you know, there's always something wrong and finding a contract isn't hard," the witcher goes on quietly, Jaskier's hand still pressed over the scar. "The problem is, the contracts you find in Novigrad aren't aways for drowners or ghosts."

Jaskier can feel his heart sink all the way into his stomach from a cold, slowly building realisation. 

Before he can say anything, Coёn continues, studying something in the corner of the room and not looking at him. 

"I don't know what was the price - how much I was worth, if you will - but he came back late at night, I was already asleep and before I could even fully wake up, his knife was already hilth-deep under my ribs."

For a second, Jaskier feels like he cannot breathe. His heart skips two painful beats and then rockets, beating so furiously against his ribcage that it hurts. 

He doesn't know what he can say, what he can do to break the silence that has sunken between them, ice-cold and heavier than he can take. He wants to lean in and touch his lips to Coёn's but he's afraid that the witcher will turn away, even though he knows that he won't. 

"The worst thing," Coёn says before the bard can bring himself to do something. "Was that for a few seconds I couldn't even do anything. It felt like it wasn't even real, like I'm still asleep. I felt the cold steel of the knife ripping through me but I didn't feel the pain, I just... I just looked at him, at his face, all shattered and broken with both coldness and horror, and I couldn't believe that it's really happening to me."

His hand doesn't still on Jaskier's back, still going up and down his spine slowly, but the bard can feel the moment the movements become mechanic, the moment Coёn stops controlling them, moving unconsciously, not stopping just because he's used to this motion. 

Jaskier's eyes well up with tears that he can't hold back anymore, and no matter how hard he tries not to, he still sniffles, which snaps Coёn's attention back, and the next second the witcher is already pulling him closer, hiding Jaskier in his arms and pressing soft kisses into his hair.

"Don't cry because of me, love," he says, leaning into the touch when the bard wraps his arms around him. "I'm here, with you, aren't I?"

"How did you?-" Jaskier pulls back, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. "I mean-"

"I don't remember," Coёn replies before the bard can find the right words. "There was a lot of blood, both his and mine, the weights of a dead body in my arms, and after that, I don't remember anything, only waking up in a healer's hut outside of the city a few weeks later, Lambert beside me."

"So Lambert knows?"

It's easier to breathe now, for both of them.

"He doesn't. It had been pure luck that he'd found me, really, and when he asked, I said that it was just a headhunter I didn't know. A little later I told him and everyone else that it was a friend that I trusted too soon. You know the actual truth."

"Gods, Coёn-" Jaskier breathes out, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Coёn's. "I wish I- I wish I knew what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," the witcher says softly, finding Jaskier's hand and guiding it back to his abdomen. "I should've told you sooner."

The scar is uneven under Jaskier's fingers, he can tell that the wound had been stitched multiple times, that it took months to heal it and he doesn't know how did Coёn even survive a wound like that but he's thankful to all the gods he knows that he did. 

For some time, they stay like that, just breathing together, and even though they've spent months with each other, Jaskier feels like this is the most intimate moment they've ever shared. He can feel Coёn's slow heartbeat, his other hand resting on the witcher's chest, can feel it rise and fall steadily, and his own breathing is evening out until it's just as calm. 

"Does it still hurt?" he asks, almost inaudible. 

"It's been years, Jask, I don't feel it anymore."

"That's not what I meant."

Before answering, Coёn pulls Jaskier in for a slow, tender kiss, running his fingers through the hair on the back of the bard's head, sending a thousand little pinpricks down his entire body. 

"It doesn't hurt since the first winter we've spent here together," he finally says, pulling away.

Though they're already so close that their chests are almost pressed together, separated only by Jaskier's hand, he still feels like it's not enough, wants to feel the witcher closer, so he carefully pulls on the edge of his shirt, like he's asking permission. Coёn helps him, lifting his arms so that the bard can pull the shirt up and over his head before mirroring the motion and stripping Jaskier of his shirt, as well, both of them completely naked now. 

"It's my turn, isn't it?" Jaskier whispers, wrapping both his arms around Coёn's neck. 

The witcher leans into the touch, brushes his lips over Jaskier's neck, noses at his hair, one hand on the small of his back, the other one somewhere on his thigh. 

"You don't have to," he says, peppering feather-light kisses over the sharp of the bard's jaw.

"You told me yours," Jaskier breathes out, relaxing into the witcher's arms and closing his eyes. "It's only fair if I tell you mine."

"I should've told you a long time ago."

Jaskier pulls back to look into the older man's eyes, bright-green with only a hint of the gold that all the other witcher have, reflecting the moonlight and glowing softly. Now adjusted to the darkness, Jaskier can see the lines of his face, not yet marked with any scars, his dark hair that he wears a little longer than he used to because the bard had told him he likes it that way. Can see the now fading marks on his neck and shoulders that look beautiful on Coёn's pale skin. 

He loves him. Right now more than ever. 

"I should've told you a long time ago, as well," he finally says. "Just promise me you'll believe me."

Coёn nods, touching his lips to Jaskier's for just a second. 

"Anything."

***

It takes him a long time to tell Coёn everything. He tells him about the mage that had given him some sort of an elixir that she claimed to be liquor, about how horrible it tasted and how sick he was for the next few days. Tells him about how it now keeps him young. About the nightmares that turned out to be the price for that. 

"I see the future in my nightmares," he says quietly, averting his eyes. "A future that I cannot change, no matter what I do. I can sometimes alter the circumstances but the end is always the same."

Coёn doesn't interrupt him, listens closely and patiently, calming the bard down with soft kisses and touches when his voice starts shaking. It's nearly dawn by now, the room filled with the soft blue-green light that only paints the sky in summer, and the last bits of fear finally bleed away from Jaskier, allowing him to breathe. 

"A little over a week ago, I saw a war," he confesses, concentrating on the warmth of the witcher's skin. "A war that will drown the entire North in blood, burn it to ashes. I saw an army of horsemen and soldiers dressed in black, fire licking at their armour but not harming them."

It's hard to talk about it, the words getting stuck in his throat, but more than fear, he feels relief. 

Relief of knowing that he doesn't have to hide it anymore, that he can stay with Coёn the entire night if they want to and even if he wakes up from his own tears, the witcher will know what's wrong and will be able to calm him down.

"Does anyone else know?" Coёn asks after a few seconds of silence. "About all this?"

Jaskier shakes his head.

"Only Geralt."

His eyes are glistening with tears again and even though he holds them back, he just can't help it, too many emotions building up in him. Coёn calms him, kisses his neck and collarbones softly, his lips warm on Jaskier's skin. He whispers comforting, affectionate little things to him until Jaskier can't hold back a smile that tugs on the corners of his lips in the sweetest of ways. 

"It's going to be alright," the witcher promises, flipping the both around carefully and laying the bard down onto the pillows. "And right now, just close your eyes and go to sleep, alright, my love? Can you do that for me?"

Jaskier can do that.

He's tired, absolutely exhausted, really.

His eyes hurt from crying and there's a low, dull thrum of pain somewhere in the back of his head, so finally resting his head on the pillows, Coёn's familiar weight next to him, feels like heaven. 

"Stay with me?" he asks even though he knows he doesn't have to. 

It's early morning by now, the entire room filled with soft pale light, and the witcher slips out of the bed for just a second, drawing the heavy curtains shut and returning to Jaskier immediately to pull him closer to him and go back to peppering weightless little kisses all over his shoulders. It's a familiar gesture for both of them, Coёn always very physical in his affections, but right now it feels special. 

Jaskier closes his eyes, little pinpricks running up and down his spine every time Coёn's lips brush over a particularly sensitive spot. His breathing evens out completely, getting deeper and slower as he sinks into sleep more and more with every passing second. 

"If I wake up-" he starts, voice only a little above a whisper, but the witcher doesn't let him finish. 

"I'll be here," he promises, touching his lips to Jaskier's so softly that it's barely even a kiss. "I'll always be here."

Jaskier nods with a barely perceptible move of his head, sighs deep and content, and before the first rays of sun break through the slit between the curtains, he's already asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will have you know that I've cried writing this chapter


End file.
